Fug File: Vogue

Fug or Fab the Cover: Anne Hathaway


What a lovely model! She’s so festive and pretty-looking, right? Perfect for the holidays! I just want to curl up with a hot toddy and a copy of the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog and flip through it, looking for some seductive country tweeds to wear for my effortless day — wait, what’s that? This isn’t some random pretty model, and this isn’t the December issue? Well. That changes things.

(Twiigs appears to be jacked up right now, so if the poll isn’t appearing to you, well, just discuss in the comments! Whee!)

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Fug Vogue Party: Maskapalooza Omnibus


The Roitfelds were a naked surprise at the French Vogue party, but there were loads of other amusing outfits at the masquerade, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t walk you down Wackitude Lane for a while. We can hold hands and talk about the physical impossibilities of the final dance performance in Center Stage, and why everybody is doing stories on TV about teenagers and their teachers having potent sexual chemistry, and why nobody ever brings up during said stories that the teachers could be SENT TO JAIL. You know, stuff like that. 

And then we’d pause to look at the real estate along Wackitude Lane. Like model Lily Donaldson here:

[Photos: WENN.com]

See, Little Red Riding Hood has been living alone in the woods with just grandma for a long, long time. So she’s not entirely upset that the big bad wolf is coming to town. Maybe he’s just a really hairy man, and he might sup on some sins of the flesh. Or he’ll eat her grandmother and she can finally blow that joint and head to the city, where there is many a streetcorner eager to be decorated by a hot young thing in red satin. Either way, she’s pretty sure it’ll end happy.
However, as usual, Miss Tyra stole the show for me.

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The Roitfugs


Apparently, French Vogue celebrated its 90th birthday at Paris Fashion Week with a masquerade-themed party — well, I assume that was the idea, although perhaps it was just a stunning case of fashion groupthink that caused everyone to show up with masks on their faces. And Vogue royalty did not skimp on the drama. Here is Julia Reston-Roitfeld, daughter of the French Vogue editrix:

[Photos: WENN.com]

I’m unclear why she isn’t wearing her giant elaborate mask — perhaps fear of telltale zit trails tomorrow morning? — but really, when she’s togged up like this, a mask is beside the point. It’s a fusion of references we like to make, like Dynasty and ice skating and something about Lady Gaga. For instance, in Ice Dynasty, this is Alexis Carrington Colby’s costume for most of her important business dealings. Skater Oksana Baiul would probably wear this in the produce section, and indeed I suspect she already has. An Gaga? She’d turn up in this at the dentist.
However, Julia’s mother Carine — the mag’s top dog and presumed rival of Anna Wintour — kind of stole the show.

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Well Played the Cover: Gywneth Paltrow


[Photo by Vogue.com]

I must confess: I think this cover is great. In the interest of full disclosure, I also have to note that I have a bizarre weakness for Gywneth. She is in many, many ways totally ridiculous and has an unerring, undeniable knack for saying things in a way that sounds as pretentious and out-of-touch as possible — GOOP’s endless loop of, “and then just add a dash of $500 Himalayan sea salt! I get mine in Tibet, but I imagine you could find some at this adorable little rare spices store in Paris as well, which is far more convenient!” being a prime example — and though I agree that she would be well served by shutting it on occasion, I (and perhaps I alone) am glad she exists. I am also glad that Vogue just stuck her in something pretty and told her to smile and act like she didn’t just suggest Paris was a handy place to buy condiments or whatever, because one more cover where the actress in question has been corralled into, like, a suit of armor or had her arm wrenched out of its socket and I was going to lose it. Again.

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Carine Fugfeld


Carine Roitfeld, the editor of French Vogue, has always been positioned as Anna Wintour’s archrival. I have no idea if this is true. But I hope to God it is, because it makes this outfit a hundred times more entertaining for me:

[Photo: WENN.com]

When you swan into a party wearing that even WITHOUT the outer layer, it sends a message, but the addition of the cape elevates it from merely batshit to full-on evil-genius divinity. This woman is the High Priestess of Bitch I’m Coming For You And When I Do I Will Eat Caviar Off The Corpse Of Your Career. I would love to have seen Anna Wintour’s face when she first saw this, either in person or in a grainy cell-phone picture someone e-mailed to her with the subject line, “Vampira Alert.” Alas, I will never know. But I can imagine it looked like this:

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Fug or Fab the Cover: Rachel McAdams


[Photo by Mario Testino/Vogue]

Our friends at Fashionista directed us to this, and…yeah. Do I hate the outfit? No, despite the fact that if I look at it too long, it begins to remind me of that time in 9th grade that I passed out in the Wet Seal right in front of the floral tank dresses. Am I so alarmed by her dye job that I think I need a new inhaler? Yes. Do I suspect it’s a subtle homage to Classic Madonna? I do. Do I miss Classic Madonna and resent being reminded of Current Madonna? Yes. Do I sometimes draw on my own beauty mark in that exact same spot? Definitely. Do I have an entire rage-y screed about how RIDICULOUS it is that NOW I have to worry about how BLEACHED TEETH are going to KILL ME? Yes. Does it include a whole sidebar about how none of us would be bleaching our teeth to begin with, if magazines weren’t Photoshopping model’s smiles into blinding oblivion? Obviously. Do I need to stop this line of self-reflexive Socratic questioning before I pass out? I do. 

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